The Oken Stone Podcast

Saint Veraud

My House

The window, cracked admits sounds of the out, of night. Rain accumulating through grass and soil, running down into the cut of the burn. An aeroplane sings in darkness, thirty thousand steps upwards into the sky, five hundred miles each hour. The fox of last week has stopped screaming and lies now asleep for an eternity upon the metalled road. Rosebay Willow Herb invades my dreams, purple lances and drifts of feathered seeds. At this hour the day falls with question, may never arise from its bed, all is still and calm save for the shrew in avid pursuit of earthen worms.

Afshin’s House

A green bird laugh echoes out over a river of cicadas and the metallic progress of vehicles some way below. Pigeons call from limestone caves to walkers on the Chemin, the yellow route, moving North. The day’s heat is building underneath oak trees old, juniper, pine. Blocks of stone, standing and fallen everywhere. Along the trail small piles of fox scat purple with damsons. Air fills the landscape. Small saplings hold up their arms in optimism through dry, dry grass and thyme. Everywhere the smell of herbs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ar 2025~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to Dafne Kritharas and Paul Barreyre for beautiful voices and guitar.

These poems were written in response to some dreams that all happened in the same week. Some of the dreams were waking dreams or reveries experienced in odd circumstances, some were compelling enough to wake me up at night.

I love having dreams, it seems to me that the unconscious state is such a vital part of our lives and we can learn so much about ourselves by paying attention to what is being offered at these times. You may or may not agree with psycho-analytical or spiritual interpretations of dreams, but it is fairly certain that they embody a part of us that is different from our conscious mind. I would like to know more about that part.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keeping TimeWent to visit,not the first time,kept it brief andsupra fiscial;cut the grass,raked my brainsremembering orlooking for rememberiesnever mine to loose.Cut the hedgebreath is filled with Cypresusland of dreams.Saw where you layat the finish of eachcyclenow, the house stands exhaustedwaitingfor both of us to leaveI leftthe clocks wound to countthe passing of you.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`By the SureHer hand on his chestplaceda sentence,words unheardin his hurry to digressfrom future structuresracedbeside guarded watersleaving no foot unturnedparted from the pathbeneath a burning bridgeoutpacedpursuit imaginedto swim in paranoid waterswhose swerving pulldrowns all ambitionchasteand washed cleanof all desires savethe one who leaveshere.~~~~~~~~~~~`The HuntSewing closed a gutted fishstuffed and cookedwhilst carrion gorge and bickercrows and rooksthrough soiled darkness come wolves or youthto hunt packedgrinding their teeth on polished stonestake abackintention veiled or slumberingarisesclimbs the walls naked and hiddendisguisingthe meaning of this day’s closingangled downlooks upon a distant surfacethe world roundcurves beneath our soft footed soulsin ambushday breaks upon the human heart’sloving touch.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~PuddingAfter the threshing and crashingof stones there isa time to be calmed,bathed in stillnesswithout motionand listen to, harken unto,hearthe roaring of my heartheld in its bony cagearterial arms spread widegrasp the bars andpant in rhythmic wantthe meter or weightof bewilderment, or whatbe wilder meantwhilst the heart leaksfrom passion’s gourdand I am a desertin the oasis of understandingor a dessert in the halls of the just.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`ar 2025

These poems were written in response to some dreams that all happened in the same week. Some of the dreams were waking dreams or reveries experienced in odd circumstances, some were compelling enough to wake me up at night.

I love having dreams, it seems to me that the unconscious state is such a vital part of our lives and we can learn so much about ourselves by paying attention to what is being offered at these times. You may or may not agree with psycho-analytical or spiritual interpretations of dreams, but it is fairly certain that they embody a part of us that is different from our conscious mind. I would like to know more about that part.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keeping Time

Went to visit,
not the first time,
kept it brief and
supra fiscial;
cut the grass,
raked my brains
remembering or
looking for rememberies
never mine to loose.
Cut the hedge
breath is filled with Cypresus
land of dreams.
Saw where you lay
at the finish of each
cycle
now, the house stands exhausted
waiting
for both of us to leave
I left
the clocks wound to count
the passing of you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

By the Sure

Her hand on his chest
placed
a sentence,
words unheard
in his hurry to digress
from future structures
raced
beside guarded waters
leaving no foot unturned
parted from the path
beneath a burning bridge
outpaced
pursuit imagined
to swim in paranoid waters
whose swerving pull
drowns all ambition
chaste
and washed clean
of all desires save
the one who leaves
here.

~~~~~~~~~~~`
The Hunt

Sewing closed a gutted fish
stuffed and cooked
whilst carrion gorge and bicker
crows and rooks
through soiled darkness come wolves or youth
to hunt packed
grinding their teeth on polished stones
take aback
intention veiled or slumbering
arises
climbs the walls naked and hidden
disguising
the meaning of this day’s closing
angled down
looks upon a distant surface
the world round
curves beneath our soft footed souls
in ambush
day breaks upon the human heart’s
loving touch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pudding

After the threshing and crashing
of stones there is
a time to be calmed,
bathed in stillness
without motion
and listen to, harken unto,
hear
the roaring of my heart
held in its bony cage
arterial arms spread wide
grasp the bars and
pant in rhythmic want
the meter or weight
of bewilderment, or what
be wilder meant
whilst the heart leaks
from passion’s gourd
and I am a desert
in the oasis of understanding
or a dessert in the halls of the just.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
ar 2025

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

Hibernation

I crawled under the shed

amongst dust and stones 

why I was there is not important

belly to the ground, back to timber joists

next to my head a nest

badly made of hay and leaves

dragged there

during a frozen time

there too within its bed

a sleeping badger

sleeping for so long

through ice and summers

seven years since

we met in January - 

you had your arm

around a chicken

curled together in the coup

looked up at me and sighed,

so warm, such bounty and warmth,

looked down at the chicken

then ran,

a two toned bear across frosted fields,

too cold to be awake

and so you came back

tucked a bed under your arm

and went to sleep.

Here we find ourselves,

you and I,

under the shed;

I am alive

and you are dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

ar 2025

Support the show

Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

A few recent poems discussing the two halves of an argument, perspectives, and landscape. The soundtrack is also a collection of moments seen from the present moment back across the space of thirty three years and includes people and places of great significance to me. Musical Credits for recordings and samples to Nicky Spence, Catherine Carter Brand, Dougie Hudson, Florencia Garcia Chafuén, Gwen Sale, Breezy Lee, Marion and Jamie Kenny, Oliver and Anders Rigg.

Two Halves

An axe is only metal
without a handle
and a tail without a horse
is only hair.

An anchor without a chain
holds nothing
and a riser without a tread
is not a stair.

Conjunction without love
is only friction
and a word without a meaning
only air.

A step is not a journey
without intention
and colour without light
is just not there.

A palm without a life line
is only leather
and here is only here
if there’s a there.

The left and the right
were born together,
mirrored twins;
a hemi semi spherical
or demi demoniacle
acceptance of direction
rejection of dejection
the button and the whole
systole and diastole
the beat and the off
of a heart doubling
Venus and arterial.

A mountain is high above
The falls below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AR 2025

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

Doppler Gang

Thought it was you but no,
it was just your hair
on another woman’s head
she said I heard
you split so sorry
but
I wear her hide with pride.

Thought I was paranoid
until you stopped watching me
and now my daily motions
pass into obscurity,
my thoughts stranded
on the beach
of my own emotions.

Thought I was ready so
I girded my loins
for the afray, but hey,
the stage was empty
save for a discarded face
wipe that smile clean
into next week.

Thought I had the spunk
punk rocked me flat
with two blue eyes of
insolence sincere
and hench hens
surrounded me
with imagined complicity.

Thought my mind was made
up goes arse over
never say ever and
afterwards I lie,
separated from my own
head;
you’re such a globe ache.

Thought this song was
about you you’re so
lame your life’s a poem
that doesn’t rhyme
with mine goes into
re-verse so
I think I’ll walk, thanks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
ar 2025

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A peedie poem about a muckle bird.

Albatrossicals

By full moon on the first of November
a great bird preened its wings
hunting far out on the oceans
by night and by day wandering.

She cries salted tears for her lover
lost in equatorial zones
across the Northernmost waters
and so far, so very far from home.

An aviated quest for redemption
a search beyond limits of sail
sleeping through tempest or peril
fallen down on the back of a whale.

Albatross crosses the wave tops
each wing is a hundred feet long
soaring and wheeling and diving
her heart is not where it belongs.

Albatross glides the Atlantic
a creature of infinite grace
displaced queen of the Gulf Stream
Pacific, alone and misplaced.

The truth is there for the telling:
reconciliation,
a soul all alone on the North Sea
fly south to your love and be one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ar 25

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Some thoughts on the most peculiar relationship that the fast moving modern town has to its situation. Executive versus historical. Nature versus Cafe Latte. Rocks versus paper and scissors.

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Some musings from the Irish Sea on the way from Galloway to Galway. 

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This is a further exploration of transience..... of passing to and fro...of  lives begun, lived and ended. It is also a celebration of all life. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Life Lived

The Life Lived
brought us both here,
yours and mine,
you and me.
Genetic lines -
I am your impurity
your blood mixed;
our commonality
seeming clear
makes each a hybridisation,
nothing pure in the world.
Your dear dead wife,
was she the sorceress
or the apprentice,
the saucer or the cup?
But I am not your cup of tea,
never was.
Your dear dead self
within my thumbs,
some aspect of my nose;
where is your residence now,
if not in the way I swing a hammer
and a certain mystical absorption
with the sound of a clarianet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ar 2025

Support the show

Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.